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Reading “difficult” novels trained me to exist in the moment, devoting every ounce of my attention to understanding the words in front of me. I no longer find my eyes flitting to dialogue, skimming past action lines to get to the end of the book.
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It took time for me to confront the fact that wushu wasn’t just a stereotype I was undeniably bound to or a guilty pleasure I was obligated to stow away.
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Just like Aly, I, too, feared attention of any form: class presentations, piano recitals, popcorn reading.
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I don’t know the exact moment I fell out of love with playing music. Somewhere amid angry spit and demoralizing comments, I grew to fear the piano.
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Deep down, I know that Myspace is a public platform, but I continue to treat it like my own secret corner of the internet.
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Every string I strum, each note and each new chord I discover helps remind me that even in quarantine, there’s still a lot of life out there to be lived.
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That’s what stanning is — a manifestation of a search for meaning. It’s great until the cravings for more start to fuel an addiction.
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I believed my teacher when she explained how drawing trees could help you find peace in the midst of chaos. I liked that idea.
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I dived into the unbounded archive of my mind, seeking something meaningful to paint and to show that I wasn’t an empty, echoic body.
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I’m unable to precisely pinpoint the moment when you went from a harmless acquaintance to a song.
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